Superman

Your action figure bodycould break glass. You took all the wrong things

from comic books: titaniumabs, an ass like two polishedasteroids. The impossible way

your back ripplesagainst itself. Plastic-haired boy, teach me

compensation, howto winnow myself intoa pearl. Teach me

about your jaw and the smooth socketsof your groin. When

you raise your arms aboveyour head, your hipbone slips into the world. What comes next

seems obvious: we tilt our bodies forward and take flight.

Sea Urchin

Today I feel like I’m swimmingin blood. The world, after all, is usually

colder than the body. Maybe this is why I love the winter thaw, the pear trees’

cum-smell, the air like a handfulof stomach muscle. The only edible part

of the sea urchin is its underbelly, you know. Let me tell you: the next boy I see

with his arms above his head won’t have time to count my teeth.

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Patrick Kindig is a dual MFA/PhD candidate at Indiana University, where he writes poems and studies 20th century American literature. His micro-chapbook, Dry Spell, is forthcoming from Porkbelly Press in late 2015, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in the minnesota review, Fugue, BLOOM, Court Green, and elsewhere.